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                                         CHAPTER NINE
                                    A PENSION & A DAM
   
I didn’t realize how much we’d miss Julius until we started plowing the fields in the
spring of 1814. He joined the South Carolina Militia back in 1802. Because of his
education, he was given the rank of lieutenant. He’s now a major and is on active duty
because of the Indian Wars in Alabama and Georgia. In his last letter he said the South
Carolina regiment was building a new fort ‘bout twenty miles west of the Chattahooche
River, in Alabama. He calls it Fort Bainbridge. He said he’d much rather be building forts
than fighting Indians. Margaret and the baby are staying with us until he gets back. He said
he thought he would be home by years’ end unless the war ended earlier.
   Young G. is only thirteen, and barely big enough to see over the plowstock, Coot is
age seventy and only a smidgen of the man he was in his prime. I’m no spring chicken at
age fifty-three. T.J. thinks he’s grown at age eight, but isn’t much help when it comes to
the heavy work. Thank goodness, William is still here. He’s strong as an ox and does the
work of two good men.
   After the fields were plowed and ready, we were anxious to get an early start the next
morning with the planting. When I walked into the kitchen before daylight the next
morning, I was flabbergasted to see Elizabeth, Gillie, Frances, Sarah, and Mary all decked
out in old clothes and ready for work. It seems that all the womenfolk had a private
meeting and decided that we menfolk needed some relief from the hard days we’d been
putting in. Becky and Pansy agreed to take care of Harriet and John, or Jack as we now
call him, so Mary could help in the fields. 
   Believe you me, I was tickled to death to get all that help, and especially happy to see
that Mary was there. I’d seen a sample of that gal’s work when we were building their
house. She could out-work any man I’ve ever seen. With the help of the girls, we had the
crops planted within the next four days. Coot summed up my feelings as he and I were
putting up the tools that last day, “Missa Theo, you sho’ got a fine bunch a’ women
‘round heah. Dey worked hard and sweated all week, jus’ like dey wuz niggas.”
   They say that in the spring a mans fancy turns to love. I think that’s exactly what
happened to old man William Forrest’s son, William Jr. He was known in these parts as
Buck. I don’t think a Sunday went by in the spring and summer of 1814 that he wasn’t
plopped out on our west porch making moon eyes at Gillie. Buck was twenty, a little
pudgy, had a head full of bushy, red hair and a face full of freckles. Becky surprised me on
one of those Sunday afternoons when she turned to me with a serious look on her face and
said, “For the life of me, I can’t see what Gillie sees in that boy. He’s nice and polite
enough, but I swear, he’s got to be the ugliest boy in South Ca’lina.” I replied, “Becky,
you can’t really mean that; from the looks of things he’s probably gonna be our next
son-in-law.” I was right. Gillie and Buck were married at our house on September 23,
1814.
   In December of that year, Coot was sitting out on his stoop whittling, when he
suddenly collapsed and fell to the floor. We heard Pansy screaming, and by the time we
got there, it was too late. Coot was dead. His heart just gave away. Coot had turned
seventy-one that summer. The news of Jeane, his mother’s death, back in 1812 was
devastating to all of us, but Coot seemed to be a different person; he could never get over
her passing. Pansy wanted him buried out under the oaks and hickories behind their cabin.
We laid him to rest on December 15, 1814.
   On the morning of March 15, 1815, I rode into Edgefield to get a spring replaced on
our old carriage. Clyde said the work would take ‘bout three hours, so I went over to the
store, bought a big slab of hoop cheese and a sack of soda crackers. I came back to one of
the benches under the trees by the livery stable, and sat down to eat. About that time, two
young fellows in their early twenties walked out of the livery stable and sat down. 
   I introduced myself to them and offered them some food. The oldest one said, “My
name’s Daniel Sullivan, and this is my brother, James. We just stopped by to get our
hosses shod.”  I extended the cheese in their direction and, as they both tore off a chunk, I
asked, “Where y’all from?” James mumbled through a mouth full of cheese and crackers,
“We from up along Cuffeetown Creek toward Abbeville.”            
   Daniel chimed in, “Yeah, we headed for tha’ Mississippi Territory, place called Fort
Claiborne. We just stopped by here for some supplies and to get some new shoes for tha’
hosses.” Surprised that the Sullivans were so calm about going into dangerous territory, I
asked, “Don’t y’all know that’s Creek Indian country? Y’all travelin’ by yourselves?”
“Mister,” Daniel said, “You must not’ve heard. Andrew Jackson and them Tennessee boys
whupped the Indians at Horseshoe Bend on the Tallapoosa River last year. Only Indians
we got to worry ‘bout is when we cross the Ocmulgee River over past Jones County,
Georgia. Then, when we get on over a bit after crossin’ the Chattahoochee, we’ll be in
Mississippi Territory, where the Indians have signed a treaty and are movin’ onto
reservations.” 
   James picked it up and said, “Yessir, we’re travelin’ by ourselves. Figure we can make
better time with just us and our pack hosses”. Daniel said, “Me and James got two pistols
and a rifle each, and we can shoot the eye out’n a squirrel at a hunnert feet. We ain’t
worried ‘bout no Indians.” James continued with, “Yeah, Ma and Pa both died ‘bout two
years ago. Left me an Daniel with that big ole house an’ all that farm land. Neither one of
us is that crazy ‘bout scratchin’ the dirt to make a livin’, so we up an sold eva’ thang an
headed out.”                                             
   In the hour or so that I spent with the Sullivan boys, I grew quite fond of them. I
admired their sense of adventure and their spunk. I went in the blacksmith shop, borrowed
a quill and some paper and wrote down the names David Goodwin, Young Goodwin, and,
John Myrick. I told the Sullivans where they lived and said, “If y’all have any trouble when
you’re in Georgia, look these folks up. They’ll be glad to help you out.” I wrote my name
and mailing address at the bottom of the bag and said, “I’m anxious to hear how you make
out. Write me a letter when y’all get settled down.” As they rode off down the street, I
waved to them and headed back into the stable to check on the carriage.            
   Back home we were all sitting at the table late that afternoon, and as I began telling
about the Sullivan boys, William joined us, poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down.
William’s eyes really began to light up when I started telling them about the newly opened
lands in the Mississippi Territory. William said, “Papa, you’re not going to believe this but
I picked up your mail in Golden Grove today, and you had a long letter from Uncle Young
and Aunt Martha. It’s strange, but most of the letter is about their plans to move to the
Mississippi Territory.” Becky went to the parlor to get the the letter. We lit the lantern,
and the letter read as follows:
                                               
“Dear Becky and Theo,                January 23, 1815
   Don’t remember the last time I wrote y’all, so first I’ll give you the sad news. I’m sure
y’all remember mine and Temperance’s papa, Gray Andrews. Well, I’m sad to tell y’all he
passed away back in December, 1813, and we miss him so much. You know he had a lot
of property, including land and Negroes to be divided up. Young was appointed
administrator of his estate and has just this year got everything settled. 
   Now, I’ll catch you up on our children. William, our oldest, married Jane Sanders on
January 15, 1815. Our daughter, Mary, married Richard Bird, Jr. in 1812. They have three
girls now. Their names are Charity, Martha, and Emily. Our second daughter, Elizabeth,
married William Hill this year.  
   I didn’t want my girls to get ahead of me, so Young and I had a baby girl born on April
7, 1810, and named her Martha. We had a new boy, Robert, born November 28, 1812,
and a daughter, Ann, born, March 15, 1814. I love every single one of these children to
pieces, but I swear if Young gets within five feet of me again, I’m gonna hit him with a
battling board. I think we’ve had enough younguns. 
   Now for the big news. We are selling our land and moving to the Mississippi Territory.
We got a letter from one of Young’s old friends, Andy Henshaw, last year. Andy left
North Carolina for Tennessee at about the same time that we moved to Georgia. He was
one of the over two hundred men that joined up with Andrew Jackson to fight the Creek
Indians in the lower Mississippi Territory in 1813 and 1814. After the Creeks were
defeated at the Battle of Horsehoe Bend on the Tallapoosa River on March 17, 1814, the
Indians gave up most of their land.                     
   Andy said he just fell in love with this new land with an abundance of navigable
waterways, plenty of wild fruit and game, covered with beautiful hardwood forests
growing out of the richest black soil he had ever laid eyes on. Instead of returning to
Tennessee, Andy stayed on land at the mouth of Mulberry Creek where it joins the
Alabama River. He was given this land grant as a reward for his service in the Indian wars. 
   Andy went on to say that he is now the High Sheriff, and there were less than one
thousand white people and about two hundred Indians in that huge area. He finished by
saying there were miles and miles of good unclaimed land just waiting for a plow. 
   David, Temperance and all their children are going with us, but the Myricks are gonna
stay in Georgia. We miss seeing y’all, and it makes me very sad to think that we may never
get to see y’all again. 

                             Love,
                             Martha Goodwin”

   Even though Becky had read the letter earlier that day and got through with her tears, I
could see them again through the lamp light glistening on her face. As sad as his mother
was, I think William was equally as excited. I said, “William, if I didn’t know better, I’d
think you have tha’ itch to go with ‘em. His reply, “Well, with what you found out from
tha’ Sullivans and from what Aunt Martha wrote, it sure does sound like something I
wanta look into.”
   We were able to gather a profitable crop in 1815, but the next year, 1816, we barely
broke even. This was due mainly to the drop in tobacco prices and partly due to the fact
that we left over fifty acres unplanted during those years. Without Coot’s help, I figured
I’d better cut back a little. 
   The winter of 1817 was cold, dreary, and very wet.  Mama came down with the flu in
late January. It quickly progressed into pneumonia, and she passed away on February 26,
1817. She would have been seventy-seven years old on March 15th. All of the Goodwins
and Bledsoes were in mourning; Mama was one of our last links to the past generation.
We buried Mama in the Golden Grove Baptist Church Cemetery, on February 28, 1817.
   William and Mary gave us another grandson on March 27, 1817. They named him
Simpson, in honor of Mama.  Mama always told the story of how I was almost named
Simpson, her maiden name.  Mama had always been with us, and William loved her dearly.
Becky and I both thought it was a wonderful tribute by William and Mary.
   We now have eight wonderful grandchildren. Harris and his wife, Mary, have a son,
Warren, born in 1808, and a daughter, Nancy, born in 1810. Wiley and Amy Bledsoe
Goodwin have a daughter, Caroline, born in 1808. Gillie and Buck Forrest have a boy,
Jefferson, born in December, 1815, and a boy, Elza, born in September, 1816, both of ‘em
redheaded as a peckerwood. Of course, William and Mary have Harriet, Jack, and
Simpson.
   On the morning of January 10, 1818, Becky got up, got dressed and went out to the
kitchen. She was surprised to find no fire in the stove, and no Pansy scurrying around
cooking breakfast. She came back to our room and got me up yelling, “Theo, get up!
Something’s wrong with Pansy. She’s not here and I can’t ever remember her not being in
the kitchen by this time of day. You’d better go over there and see about her.” I grumbled
and replied, “She probably slept late. She’ll be here in a little while.” Becky said, “No,
you’ve got to go see about her. She was complaining about her shoulders and arms
hurting before she left last night. I just know something’s wrong.”
   When I got over to her cabin, I called out as I beat on the door, “Pansy, it’s me, Mr.
Theo, are you all right?” My efforts were rewarded with nothing but silence. By that time,
Becky had come over and told me, “Pansy always latches the door on the inside when she
goes to bed, you’re gonna have to kick it in, Theo.” With one hard kick, the door flew
open. We rushed into her bed room and found Pansy lying in her bed, cold and stiff. She
must have died the night before. Just like Coot, it must have been sudden, ‘cause if she
had been able, she’d certainly have come for help. 
   We buried her the next day out by her husband. We got a Negro preacher from over at
Wiley’s place to preach her funeral. All of our family was there with the exception of
Harris and Mary, who now live over in Laurens County. It seemed sad that the only Negro
present was the preacher. Pansy’s funeral seemed to close another chapter of days gone
by.
   I was over in Edgefield early on the morning of the 5th of June, 1818, and happened to
run into Eldred Simkins at the general mercantile store. I said, “Eldred, what in the world
are you doing way over here? You’ve got everything you need at your store in Golden
Grove.” He said, “No, I ran out of a few things and drove over here to pick them up.” He
then asked, “Theo, didn’t you tell me one time that you did a little fightin’ back in the
Revolutionary War?” I replied “Yeah, fought with Captain Temple over at Stono’s Ferry.” 
   He said, “When you get through here, you oughta stop by the courthouse and talk to
Judge Thompson. Seems like the gova’ment is now takin’ applications for pensions from
eva’body who did any fightin’ in that war. Filled out mine and turned it in last week. Can’t
believe we gonna get paid for sump’in we wuz obliged to do anyhow.” After I loaded the
supplies in the wagon, I walked over to the courthouse and down the hall to the office of
Judge Waddy Thompson. 
   Judge Thompson, the same one that introduced himself to me and the boys when we
were bringing our first tobacco crop to market, was now in his early fifties, still wore the
wire-rimmed glasses, was still thin, but was now bald as an onion. As I walked in, he
peered up from his reading and said, “Come on in Theo, haven’t seen you in years. How’s
Becky and the younguns?”
   After the brief bantering of standard congenialities, he finally said, “What brings you in
today? What can I do for you?” I replied, “Eldred Simkins was tellin’ me something about
a pension being due to all Revolutionary War veterans, and I came by to apply.”
   The judge said, “Theo, you’re about the tenth person to come in since that bill was
passed back in March.  I’m sure, knowing how the government works, that these
applications are going to be processed and approved on the priority of need. The first
thing I’ll need is your discharge papers.”  I told him, “Judge, I haven’t seen those papers in
years. In fact, Becky and I were going through the trunk where we keep things such as
that just last month, and I asked her where my discharge paper was. We couldn’t find hide
nor hair of it. In fact, I really can’t remember seein’ those papers since back in the eighties
in No’th Ca’lina.” 
   Judge Thompson said, “Don’t worry ‘bout it, Theo. Believe you me, the government
will have copies of your war records. Just tell me what outfit you were in, when you
joined, who were your commanders, where you fought, and when you were discharged.”
Judge Thompson took all the information down as I related it to him and said, “If you’ll
wait about an hour or two, I’ll have the papers ready for you to sign.” I walked over to
the store to kill time and wait. When I walked back into the judge’s office, he had the
application all written out and ready to sign. Not that anyone will ever be interested in
reading all these fancy words, but I’ll write them down anyway.                                                                                                
THE STATE OF SOUTH CAROLINA          June 5, 1818
EDGEFIELD DISTRICT                
                                     
   By the Honorable Waddy Thompson, Esquire, one of                                   the judges
of the court of Equity in the state aforesaid.
   
   To all to whom which presents shall come greetings. Know ye that Theophilus
Goodwin, citizen resident of the district and state aforesaid, labourer, did this day appear
before me and made oath on the holy evangelist of Almighty God that he enlisted in the
army of the United States in the Revolutionary War in the year 1778 under Captain Robert
Temple of the infantry in the North Carolina Regiment under the command of Col. Litle
(Archibald Lytle) of G Brigade and General Summers Brigade and fought at the Battle at
Stono (Stono’s Ferry) and that he served faithfully for the term of nine months and
received his discharge from Captain Robert Temple, which discharge is lost or mislaid that
he cannot find it. He further deposeth and saith that from his reduced circumstances in life
that he is greatly in need of the aid of his country for support. 
                                 
                       Theophilus Goodwin (signed) 
                                                                                                       
   In Testimony that the above named Theophilus Goodwin did this day make oath before
me of the truth of the above affidavit and I hereunto set my hand and caused the seal of
the court to be affixed. This 5th day of June in the year of our Lord one thousand eight
hundred and eighteen and of the independence of the United States of America the
forty-second.

                              W. Thompson (signed)

   I, Waddy Thompson, one of the judges of the court of equity in the state aforesaid do
hereby certify that from the evidence presented before me it appears to my satisfaction that
the within named Theophilus Goodwin did serve in the Revolutionary War as above
mentioned and that he is entitled to the benefits of the Act of Congress passed on the 18th
of March 1818 in such cases.

                    Given under my hand and seal the                                          
                    day and date above mentioned.

                    W. Thompson (signed)

   When we finished signing the papers, I told Waddy that the main conversation over at
the store these days seems to be the Alabama Territory. Seems like eva’body and his
brother are making plans to head west. I was surprised when he said, “I’ve heard there are
thousands of acres of good rich land along the Alabama River for sale at only a dollar and
a quarter an acre. Since the Indians were defeated, I’ve got a feeling that people are gonna
be leaving South Carolina in droves. I’ve been seriously thinking of selling out and moving
myself.”
   I rode into the yard just as the sun was falling below the hills to the west. Becky met
me on the back porch and asked, “Where in the world have you been all day? I’ve been
worried to death.” I replied, “I’ll tell you while we’re eatin’ supper; it’s been a very
interesting day.” I went over to the washpan, washed and dried my face and hands and
went inside for supper. 
   I went over to Golden Grove on September 26, 1818, and Eldred Simkins handed me
an important looking government envelope from Washington City. I opened it and found
that my pension had been approved on September 18, 1818. In it was what Eldred called a
government voucher for forty-eight dollars. Eldred told me, “All you have to do is sign it,
and I’ll give you the money.” He said, “From now on, you’ll be able to pick up eight
dollars every month, as it comes in.” The forty-eight dollars caught me up from when the
pension bill was passed back in March. 
   Becky was tickled to death when I walked in and showed her the money. Her response
was, “Theo, do you realize how much that pension will help, especially since the crops
have been so bad the last couple of years?” I agreed, “It will sure make things better. Do
you realize, if we saved that money for a year, we could buy twenty-five acres of good
farm land every year?” Becky asked, “How long do you think they’ll keep payin’ you?” I
replied, “According to Waddy Thompson, I’ll get it for the rest of my life. He said I’d
probably have to turn in a statement of my worth ever so often, but he wadn’t sure about
that.”
   After William, Young G., T.J., and me got the crops in that year, we were all sitting on
the front porch discussing how much better we did this year. William said, “Papa, I know
your decidin’ to plant that fifty acres of cotton and only a hundred acres of tobacco really
made the difference. The way I figure it, even after payin’ Wiley for the pickers we rented
and the ginnin’ cost, we cleared over twenty dollars per acre, and that was only for the
cotton.” 

William was quick with figures, so I asked, “What you figure we made on the
tobacco?” William said, “We only made a little over eight hundred dollars after costs on
the whole hundred acres.” I replied, “That’s only about eight dollars per acre. Sounds to
me like we need to plant the whole hundred and fifty acres in cotton next spring.” William
agreed and continued, “I think we should keep plantin’ that other fifty acres, half and half,
with corn and wheat, don’t you, Papa?” Before I could get my answer out, Young G.
chimed in with, “Y’all don’t eva’ ask me what I think. I know I’m just seventeen, but I got
some ideas I wish y’all would listen to.”
   I was shocked but happy to hear Young G. butt in like that. According to Julius, he
was always one of our smartest younguns in book learning, but also very reserved in
dealing with other people. I’ve always noticed, from the time he could talk, on the rare
occasions when he did speak, every one listened. At seventeen, he is over six feet tall, with
strongly defined facial features, and a head of thick dark brown hair.
    I turned to Young G. and said, “We’d like to hear what you’ve got to say. Me and
William talk so much that you gotta learn to butt in and speak your mind anytime you take
a notion to.” Young G. continued, “I know why the cotton did so well.  It’s ‘cause we
planted it where tobacco was planted for years. The tobacco was planted where there has
always been tobacco planted. The cotton grew like crazy, and the tobacco was as poor
a’crop as we eva’ strung. If you look back over the last several years our tobacco crops
have gotten worse eva’ year.”
   I interrupted and said, “Well, what you tryin’ to tell us? I been plantin’ in the same
place for the last twenty-six years, the land just ain’t as good as it used to be. I guess it’s
just gettin’ a little worn out, like me.” Young quickly retorted, “No, Papa, the cotton crop
done so good, ‘cause it needed some of what the tobacco crops have been puttin’ in the
soil for those twenty-six years. What I’m tryin’ to say is that different plants take different
things out of the soil, and they also put different things in the soil. What one of ‘em needs
and takes out, the other ones put in. What we need to do next spring is plant a hundred
acres of cotton where the tobacco was, plant fifty acres of tobacco where the corn and
wheat was and plant the corn and wheat where the cotton was.” 
   I looked at William with a puzzled face and asked, “Do you understand what he’s
sayin’?” William quickly replied with a sound of excitement in his voice, “Sure, I do, and it
makes a lot of sense. I just don’t understand these ‘things’ you’re talking about, Young.”
Young G. replied, “William, I guess they didn’t have those science books when you were
in school. They called those ‘things’ minerals or either it was chemicals. I don’t rightly
remember, but that don’t make no difference, I know they’re in the ground.” William
turned to me and said, “Papa, what he says makes so much sense to me, I want to try it
next spring.” I replied, “I don’t understand it all, but I’m willin’ to give it a try.”
   With that, Young G. was grinning from ear to ear. He said, “Y’all wait a minute, I ain’t
through yet. You know how eva’ year we wait and worry and pray ‘bout the rain that we
either get or don’t get at the right time. Well, I done figured out the answer to that
problem.” I turned to William and T.J and jokingly said, “Look out, boys, he’s fixin’ to
take on the Lord’s work.” Young G. said, “I’m not kiddin’, I’m serious. Just hear me out.
Y’all know that deep limerock gorge on the creek that empties right into the swimmin’
hole? That ole big rock we jump off’en is pure limestone. We could dig into it about a foot
and dig about a foot into the rock on the other side to anchor a strong dam. I’ve been
down there taking some measurings, and it would only take about eight feet in height and
five feet in width of rock and clay to dam up the creek and have the water level two feet
above the fields down in the valley.” 
   I said, “Young, that all sounds very interesting, but how would you get the water to the
crops, carry it in buckets? We could do that right out’n the creek and wouldn’t have to
tote it near as far.” He said, “No, Papa, since the fields are almost flat with a very gentle
slope toward the creek, we could dig a ditch across the upper end of the fields connected
to a ditch to the dam, then build a strong wooden stop to use at the dam. We could build a
frame for the stop, so we could raise it or lower it as we need to. Then we could control
the flow of water to the crops.” 
   What Young G. was describing was ingenious, and he now had all of us excited with
this idea. I asked, “What would happen when the heavy spring rains came, wouldn’t it
wash the dam out?” Young replied, “Absolutely not. Not if we anchor the dam well
enough on each side and dig down deep enough in the creek bottom and fill it in with clay
and stone. We would also have to make it as thick as possible, with it slopin’ gradually to
the down creek side.”
   William asked, “What are we gonna do with the creek while we build the dam, just pick
it up and move it?” Young said, “I was worried about that, so I went down there the other
day and found that those two big limerocks extend about ten feet up the creek. It’ll be
easy to cut some logs, place them across the creek and wedge them behind the rocks. You
know, sorta like a temporary dam. Then, at the top, dig two ditches, one on each side to
divert the main flow of water until we finish the dam and give it time to set up.”
   William and I sat there silently, amazed. T.J. finally broke the silence with, “Can I help
y’all?” When I answered, “Sure you can, T. J., and what’s more, you’ll have a brand new
big swimmin’ hole just above the old one.” William and Young G. took that as my
approval for the project. Young G. let out a big holler you could hear throughout the
valley. Becky, Sarah, Elizabeth, Frances and her fiance, Thomas Wright, came running out
of the parlor to see what had happened. When we explained, they too, seemed as excited
as we were. 
   The next morning, I got Young G. up at daylight and said, “Come on, let’s walk up the
creek a spell. I want to see how much valley we might put under water, and if there’s the
slightest possibility that this dam project of yours will work.” As we were walking out the
door, Young G. said, “Papa, I done been up there, and that gorge extends about two miles
upcreek. I couldn’t find a place that it’s walls wadn’t over eight feet high. I don’t think
there’s a place it’ll get out of the creek bed.” 
   I said, “If that’s the case, then we’ll get started on it, but I also want you to show me
how you plan to make that water stop at the dam to control the water. If it’s not just as
strong as the dam the pressure will wash it out.” He said, “I’ve already figured that out. I
can chisel out a trough in the limestone a foot wide and two feet deep all the way across,
to the ditches, then chisel out a slot for the boards to slide into.” I said, “Sounds good to
me, but I want to see for myself.”
   Later that morning, after we had gone over the whole project and looked at everything,
I said, “It oughta work, Young. Let’s go get William and T.J., and get to work.” After
breakfast, I told T.J., “Go out to the barn and saddle the horse for me. I’m gonna ride
over to Wiley’s place and see about rentin’ three or four of his best Negroes. He’s finished
with the harvestin’, so he’ll be happy to get some work for them. Since we’re gonna do
this thing, I wanta get through with it and make sure it works ‘fore we start gettin’ the
fields ready for plantin’.”
   With the help of Wiley’s four field hands, we were completely finished with the dam and
irrigation ditches by the first of November, 1818. I was amazed to see how easily the
wooden boards worked in controlling the water flow to the ditches. Young G. planed out
four boards, six inches wide, two feet long, and four inches thick. They fit perfectly in the
slots he had chiseled out in the trough. The slots were six inches wider than the trough on
each side and two inches deeper. The flow was controlled by removing one, two, three, or
all four of the boards, depending on how much water you wanted. With all the boards in
the slot, the water ran over the dam, creating a beautiful waterfall .  I’ve never seen a
prouder youngun. Young G. has spent most of the daylight hours looking at the dam and
ditches. T.J. has followed him just about step for step. Young and T.J have flooded the
fields twice since the dam was finished. According to the two of them, they were just
checking everything out to make sure it worked properly.

CHAPTER TEN                                                                                                                        BACK